Thursday.
At the coffee shop. One of my barista friends was so happy to see me when I came in. She was like, “OMG you are literally the first normal person to come in here today. All morning it’s been tourists! They just keep getting weirder and weirder. And then they treat us like we are the problem! What is that about?”
I am going to go out on a limb and guess the tourists in question are either Mainlanders or Russians. Everyone knows Mainlanders have some very specific, very strange behaviors that distinguish them from HongKongers. It’s fun to observe from afar. It’s not so fun when you’re right in the middle of a large group of them.
As for the Ruskies, well… I had my own unfortunate encounter with some tourists last night. It was… yeah.
I was not originally planning to go out last night because of my hangover. I was comfortably settled into bed watching movies when my friend messaged me out of nowhere and asked if I wanted to go out. It was about 10:30pm at this point. She is the one who I was supposed to go out with on St. Patrick’s Day, but she wasn’t feeling up to it.
We met up in Central around 11pm and walked around looking for a quiet place to chat. We found a super cute cocktail bar with an interior straight outta the palace of Versailles. Loved it! We were sitting there chatting and having a good time. That was when the Russians invaded.
A large group of them came in and flooded this tiny little place at once. All of them were wearing those stupid Leprechaun hats. They had clearly already been drinking for some time. They were loud and obnoxious and totally ruined the vibe. One of them even started doing Ye Olde Cossack Dance in the middle of the room. Don’t get me wrong; she was good as hell, but this was neither the time nor the place for such rowdiness.
We finished our drinks and relocated to a different place around the corner. It was still too loud. Neither of us were in the mood for that level of overstimulation. Either way, I was happy just to be there with her. It’s so refreshing to finally have a female friend I can just chill out and vibe with. I get so tired of being surrounded by men.
I really enjoyed hanging out with her last night. She reminds me to be grateful for this opportunity. I know I complain about my family all the time, but I do acknowledge the fact that they have helped me out financially A LOT. I just wish they wouldn’t be so fucking mean about it all the time. It’s essentially like getting paid to put up with constant verbal and emotional abuse. I just don’t want to listen to it anymore.
Literally, all I’m asking them to do is read my frickin’ blog. Read one of my stories. Just one time. Read a story! See where your money is actually going! Just one time! Bare minimum: acknowledge this website exists. Read a story. Stop saying crazy, unhinged shit like, “You’re not a REAL writer!” Yes, I am.
Do you even know how many men in Bangkok are angry with me right now because of the things I’ve written? How is that not real? And what about Bloody Mary’s? What about all the shit I stirred up when I was writing that? Furthermore, I am recognized and remembered as “Betsey Horton the Writer” everywhere I go. Everywhere. I can talk to someone for 20 minutes at a random bar in a place like Hong Kong, disappear for 3 months, come back, and be recognized STRAIGHT AWAY!
How is that not real? That is literally how celebrities are made! I didn’t choose this life. It chose me! People remember me. They remember my stories. I can’t wrap my head around their reasoning for pretending my entire body of work doesn’t exist.
Literally all my grandmother and aunt do is READ. You would think they would actually sit down and read what I have to write instead of shitting all over me and tearing me down all the time and pretending like I’m somehow different than Virginia Woolf or Jane Austen.
Virginia Woolf literally said, “A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction.” She wrote a whole book about it! You think I haven’t read that shit?! Come on! Who do you think inspired me to do this in the first place?! The worst part is… I know they’ve read Virginia Woolf too!
They literally act like I sit around doing nothing all day and that’s not true! Yes, I need an editor. Yes, I need an agent. Yes, I need connections and job opportunities and a variety of other things I don’t have. I’m not there yet.
I need better stories than whatever garbage I was writing when I lived in South Dakota. I have the stories. I am overwhelmed with stories. I need an editor who is going to sit down with me and seriously help me sort of the stories. I am trying to find this person. It hasn’t happened yet. In the meantime, just lay off of me already, would you?!
This is all coming up for me because my selections for my double feature movie night yesterday were Lady Bird (which I had never seen) and Girl, Interrupted (which I have not watched in about 20 years). Lady Bird is basically the most accurate depiction I’ve ever seen in media of my relationships with my mother, aunt, and grandmother.
Girl, Interrupted is… a little more complicated than that. When I watched the movie and read the book for the first time, I was literally in and out of a hospital like that because I was struggling with depression and suicidal thoughts. It was meaningful to see the struggles of myself and those around me glamourized onscreen by the likes of Winona Ryder, Angelina Jolie, and Brittany Murphy.
While I could relate to some of it when I was 17, I did not have the understanding of mental illness that I have now. I had not found my way “out” yet. I would argue that I did not get “out” until last year when I got the job in Hong Kong and ran for my fucking life. Sometimes I feel like I’m still “in” that place, metaphorically speaking.
That’s why they call it the Hotel California. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.
Here is another reason I am upset with Hermes. I recognized him from the Hotel California the first time I met him. We all know each other here, even when we are total strangers. He kept commenting on the fact that he noticed I had what he referred to as “prison behaviors.” I always sit with my back to the wall, facing the room, watching the door, monitoring who comes in and who comes out. He does the same thing. He learned how to do it when he was in prison to stay safe. Same, same. The only difference is that I was in a hospital.
I am quite open about this particular aspect of my history because I think it’s important to erase the shame and stigma around mental illness and encourage others to get the help they need. However, I was not quite so willing to share this information with a total stranger in Bangkok who walks around telling everyone he’s with the IRA (he’s not). He basically wormed his way in and gained enough trust for me to explain this to him, and then he turned around and used it against me.
Not cool, bro! Totally not cool!
So yeah, I think it’s only fair to put that image up and make him look at his own lie directly in the face. I hope he really takes the time to sit with that and think about the consequences of his behaviors towards others. As previously stated, he is such a little shit! He needs a wake up call. That’s why I say… next time I’m coming back with the Big Spoon. I could do so much worse than this. You got off easy this time, friend. Don’t do it again.
Ultimately, I think of him as my weird Black Sheep cousin from the North who nobody wants to talk to or about. I see him in a very childlike way, in spite of the fact that he is slightly older than me. He is very, very young in my mind. Like a Peter Pan type. Just living it up in Never, Never Land, totally unwilling to ever grow up.
I could never relate to Wendy until now. I had fun on my little adventure in Thailand, but ultimately I chose to leave because I knew it was time for me to grow up. Strange metaphor to make.
In my heart, I know I will always think of the Irishmen I met in Bangkok as my spiritual family. I’ve got my crazy uncle from Dublin who drinks too much and randomly imparts wisdom and knowledge when I need it. He taught me so much about my history and culture already.
Then we have the Moose, who is my weird cousin from way out in the country. Then the Hot Beef Stew, who I was attracted to the vague familiarity of him, only to discover much, much later that he is a distant cousin. Distant enough that it’s not totally gross, but still close enough to be inappropriate. Also, he is married, so No. Definitely not, No. And then Hermes, who, as previously stated, is the Black Sheep cousin from the North.
And there you have it: my first Irish fam. They taught me so much about myself. They inspired me to learn who I am and where I came from. Forget going back to Thailand! Put me on a plane straight to Ireland! I want to learn the Irish language and dig through the archives looking for my family and learn how to drive a stick shift so I can roam around County Cavan.
Yeah, forget the stag hunting. I’m going digging for my family history. I feel very strongly that my Irish Grandmother has tasked me with this. I have been doing my Ancestry work and it’s the Irish side that is completely missing from the tree. The only way I can get the information I need is to go there and dig through the library.
I feel like Indiana Jones running all over the map of the world right now. I remember this time last year, before I was offered the job that brought me to Asia, when I was deep in meditation and asking for a sign. I saw my dad appear holding his old globe that I saved from his office. I heard the theme song playing and watched the red lines appear, tracing a trail all over the world.
My barista friend just came out for a cigarette break and a chat. She asked me if I’m going back to Thailand. I said, “No, I need a break. I need to take some space from whatever shit I stepped in over there.”
She nodded and said, “Are you sure they’re not tracking you here in Hong Kong?”
“Oh, probably.”
“Aren’t you afraid they’re going to come here and find you?”
“Not really, no.”
“Why not?”
“I’m just… not.”
I have my own reasons for this. First of all, I haven’t actually written anything that bad. These men just can’t handle being told they’re acting like misogynist jerks by an American woman. That’s why they all fled the West and came to Thailand.
Second, I don’t think Hermes can actually leave the country. Even if he could, he’s a bit tied up at the moment taking care of his sick water buffalo. He’s all about posturing anyway. There are plenty of people higher up than him on the food chain who don’t consider me to be a threat to them. I doubt that’s going to be a significant problem.
As for Uncle Jason… seriously, like, whatever, bro. I literally do not care who he is or what he does. I am not interested. Sure, I have some vague notion of what he does, but I’ve decided to conveniently look the other way. I must busy myself with more important tasks instead.
Ultimately, I just wanted to teach Hermes a lesson. Most of them will agree he needs a good whack on the arse. Next time I’m coming back with the Big Spoon! Ya heard?!
Phew! That was A LOT! Time to quit writing for the day and tend to my other tasks. You know, like checking out this total beefcake who just walked by carrying something that looks like a lacrosse stick. I think that’s one of the GAA sports, isn’t it? Don’t they have something that looks like lacrosse? Yeah, that’s why the Irish and the Native Americans get along like peanut butter and jelly. They’re playing the same game, but the sticks look a bit different. It’s a whole thing.
See, this is what I’m talking about. Nobody cares about you, Uncle Jason. I’m not interested in your English bullshit, okay? I’m tired of being English. I’ve been English my whole life. I’m over it. I want to be Irish now. So I need to go learn about the Gaelic sports and watch some hot men run around a field with large sticks. Okay? Okay.
And she lived happily ever after.
The End
